Queen of the Alleyways
by SpellCleaver
Summary: Clary Fray has had a hard life, growing up as a pick pocket in 1888 Whitechapel. Now after all her struggles she has friends, a family, and a predictable safe life. Until something unexpected happens. She gets caught. And now she's trying to work out why he let her go as she fulfils the deal they made. Everything just goes downhill from there. M to be safe. DISCONTINUED.
1. Chapter 1

**Here's a new story idea. _Much_ darker than what I usually write. We're learning about Whitechapel in History, which is where this idea came from. This is rated M since, due to it being set in 19th Century Slums, there will be mentions of things like prostitution and violence, and I'm paranoid of being reported.**

 **Note: I do not agree with any racial/ religious/ social prejudices mentioned in this story. These are just examples of ones that would have been present at the time.**

 ** _Clary's an Irish-born pick pocket trying to survive on the streets of Whitechapel in 1888 without reverting to prostitution. She's stolen the frozen heart of Jonathan Morgenstern, local gang leader and has managed to construct a stable, reasonably safe life through her friends and allies in the slum, just trying to stay out of the path of the notorious Jack the Ripper. But when she tries to pick pocket a journalist, there to investigate into the Whitechapel murders, and he catches her, she never expected him to let her go. Provided she gives him and his siblings an insight into her world, of course._** ** _Aside from jealous gang leaders, racial tensions, a string of murders, and that strange being known as love,_** ** _what can go wrong?_**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own TMI...**

* * *

 _8:00am, September 8 1888, Whitechapel High Street_

Clary kept her sharp eyes trained on the man standing near the scene, or - more specifically - the fine, lovingly crafted fancy handkerchief hanging out of his pocket.

By the way he was feverishly scribbling in his notebook, his head inclined to listen to the exchanges the police were having, she guessed he was a journalist, or at least an apprentice, judging by his fresh age. He had he had curly hair as bright as the gold chain on his enamelled pocket watch, and had a tall, muscular frame that Clary knew would dwarf her own. His head was turned away from her, but she could see enough of his front and side profile and the way he was dressed, to know that he was at the very least part of the middle class, if not one of the more modest wealthy families.

She presumed he was standing next to the police as they barked at each other because of the murder that had occurred in the early hours of that morning. She could tell by the slowly gathering crowd that word was only beginning to reach the residents of the district about it. She wrinkled her nose as she observed one young couple skipping down the High Street, heedless of the dirt and sewage staining their shoes, chatting away excitedly. She shook her head. Most viewed murder scenes as entertainment to be gawked at, places to go for a family outing. It was ridiculous.

Clary had found out about the event so early through the rumours circulating around the alleyways. No one knew the alleys better than her, and she knew exactly where to go and who to ask to find out information. People always found it strange that she, a lowly pick pocket, could wield so much power amongst the criminals who called the district home, but it was her invisibility that granted her that power. No one had any qualms about spilling secrets to the little curious girl, whilst they might hesitate if faced with a known notorious felon.

She watched the crowd slowly clog the street and suppressed a grin. Perhaps it was cold-hearted of her but she always took advantage of the situations caused by crime investigations; it drew in a crowd, which was the perfect environment for pick pockets.

At the moment, she was loitering in the doorway of a nearby tavern, looking to all the world like a prostitute tired out from the night. The only parts of her you could see from the perspective of those standing near the murder scene were the white smudges against the shadows. Even her brilliant scarlet hair - a sign of her Irish heritage - was dirty and blended into the muddy, filth-smeared wall with surprising ease. Her posture was as straight as a squashed S, her hands dangling with faked exhaustion, and her head drooped. The only parts of her that looked alive were her clear green eyes, which darted around the crowd, landing on the faintest twinkle they detected, and scrutinising how easy it would be to pull the wool over the eyes of her targets.

She moved out of the shadows into the little light that filtered through the murky, dust-ridden air as she heard the tell-tale sounds of the owners of the tavern getting up - pots clanking, stairs creaking, voices clattering. As soon as the shadows melted off of her figure, her demeanour changed completely. Her wilting shoulders were hammered into a straight line, her posture became erect, her dainty hands came down to fiddle with the hem of her dress. Her head stayed tilted downwards, her hair appearing brown as it fell in her face, but now it was in nervous modesty, rather than hopelessness. She became a fragile daughter of a respectable family, here to see what all the fuss was about.

Keeping her head down, she skirted delicately around the gossiping gentlemen, who were exchanging theories about the reason they thought was why the police were making such a big deal of a mere prostitute's murder. She would have smirked, but it would have affected her mask, so she fought it.

The police were interested in this case because of the expertise of the dismemberment. It was an oddity to begin with, so now it'd happened twice, it was an oddity to investigate.

Of course, neither the Metropolitan police nor the City of London police had anticipated having to fight over the scraps of evidence like dogs over scraps of meat.

She finally lowered her eyes to the ground, to maintain the image of a demure daughter, but they flickered up to observe her target every so often. He hadn't changed position and was still intently eavesdropping on the police officers as they went round banging on the doors to the houses that bordered Bucks Row, where the murder had occurred. One in particular stopped harshly questioning the housewife who opened the door, to walk over to him. The officer had straight, ink black hair and milky pale skin, almost as pale as Clary's herself, only without freckles. His deep blue eyes were solemn, and he carried a faintly irritated air about him.

The blonde journalist said something whilst grinning, and the officer scowled. Shaking his head, he turned away, appearing to mutter something Clary was willing to bet was less than complimentary.

She narrowed her eyes at the officer as he stalked back to his comrades. She knew him. Officer Alexander Lightwood. He was one of the regular policeman who patrolled Whitechapel, and was probably the best at his job. He was incredibly attentive. It was the pick pockets unspoken challenge: if you could steal from him without getting caught, you were the best, and gained unrivalled respect.

Needless to say, no one had done it yet. If you were caught, you could be sentenced to three months hard labour, which was a punishment no one wanted to receive.

The journalist huffed in what looked like a cross between an annoyed sigh and an amused chuckle, before turning around to shove borderline rudely and unceremoniously through the gathering crowd. She trailed him with a soft tread, glancing around cautiously in a way that would have made any onlooker think she was wary of pick pockets herself, if they bothered to spare her a glance. Which most didn't.

He walked for a few streets, before ducking down a side road and coming out through the shadowed walkway onto Commercial Road. He stopped a little way ahead, leaning his broad frame against the grimy wall. He was perfectly positioned so that he was just out of sight of the pedestrians as he scribbled something into his notebook. For the first time she noticed a heavy-looking silver ring on his left ring finger, inscribed with a H and a pattern of herons.

A faint smile lurked on her vaguely pretty features at this realisation. _Now_ she recognised him. She'd stolen from him before. He was more attentive than the average citizen, but wasn't an impossible target. In the past eighteen months she'd gathered a few silvers, three colourful handkerchiefs, and six fine gold chains from him. He came here often.

She fastened her eyes onto the shimmering square of fabric that had been folded and stuck carelessly into his back pocket. He seemed engrossed in his own world, so she crept forward on silent feet, reached out a small hand which caught the corner of it and tugged ever so gently. It slid out as smoothly as anticipated, but there was a hint of resistance. She furrowed her brows and bit her lip. A sudden jerk as she finally pulled it free-

 _Clink_. She cursed without words. She hadn't counted on there being change in his pocket. Now it felt to the ground, a winking silver disk. She glared at it as it hit the rubbish-decorated pavement with an incriminating _clunk_.

She turned to run into one of the alleys she knew so well, stolen handkerchief waving behind her like a golden goose, but slender, strong fingers wrapped round her wrist in a firm grip she couldn't break. Using her arm as a lever, the journalist spun her round to face him, wearing an infuriating smirk as he surveyed her surprise and distress.

"Well, well," he drawled, looking amused, despite the faintest trace of panic she read in his eyes. "Do we have a little pick pocket, here?"

She rolled her eyes. "Obviously."

His eyebrow rose and his head tilted as he picked up on the faint lilt to her words. "Irish, are we?"

"Born and bred in Whitechapel." She replied with a blank face. She noticed him trying to look past it and failingly. She grinned, which just seemed to baffle him more. "Parents migrated after the potato famine." She had picked up her slight accent from listening to them talk. Overall, she sounded fairly English.

He opened his mouth slightly. "And what's it like, living in London with all the racial discrimination going on?" He forced his voice to appear curious, but she saw his eyes flick to the notebook in his right hand. The pen he'd been writing with was still in the hand ringing her wrist, pressing up against her slowly steadying pulse.

"I'm not going to answer your questions like someone being interviewed, whilst you stand at the possibility of reporting me for theft. I have more pride than that." She stated matter-of-factly.

He just looked amused now, though also slightly impressed. "Pride is an expensive thing in the slums."

"One I can well afford." She lightly pulled on her wrist, but his grip didn't loosen. "Now, can you either let me go quietly, or just turn me in, because this is really getting on my nerves."

He grinned broadly. For the first time she noticed that his glinting eyes were a dull gold, as opposed to brown. "And here I thought you were warming up to me."

"You need to work on your people skills," she said, mock seriously. He chuckled, and she was struck by how it seemed to light up his face. His wicked smile made him look like a fallen angel.

"Well then," he narrowed his eyes at her. "how about this: If you return the handkerchief, I'll give you another, more valuable one, then let you go. However, if you want to fulfil the deal then tomorrow, you have to meet me and my siblings in Mitre Square at seven am sharp tomorrow and give us a detailed insight into the backstreets of Whitechapel."

She looked at him with her face scrunched up. "Why on earth would you want me to do that?"

He looked at her unfazed, like he was used to reluctant acquaintances. Perhaps he was. "My sister and I are co-writing a story about the conditions of Whitechapel, and the abundance of crime, so the rest of our class can know what it's like not just from garbled rumours." His eyes sparked dangerously. "And you seem like a girl who knows the streets well. The perfect guide. And along the way, you can tell us a bit about yourself." He tilted his head, scrutinising her. "Call it a case study."

There was a moments silence. "I'm Jace Wayland, by the way." He said, hurriedly, seeming to realise he was bartering with someone and he didn't even know their name.

"Clary Fray." The redhead studied him thoughtfully. "One last question," she said. Her hand was starting to ache from oxygen deprivation; his grip was tight. "Why would you want me to return the handkerchief, just for you to give me a more valuable one?"

His joking expression fell, and he chose his next words carefully. "That particular one was hand-stitched by my late mother," he admitted eventually. "It has sentimental value."

She nodded solemnly. "Fair enough."

He looked at her with genuine curiosity now. "You understand the value of sentiment?"

She kept her expression guarded. "Your not the only one who's lost a family member. You're not the only one who's known grief."

His eyes became shadowed. "I'm sorry," he said. She shook her head.

"No, you're not. No one is. That's just something you're required to say. Don't say it if you don't mean it."

"But I do mean it," he replied earnestly as he released her wrist. She rubbed it, and he pulled out a pale blue handkerchief with elaborate embellishments on it, which admittedly did look more valuable than the one she'd originally tried to steal. "I'm sorry for talking down to you. I'm sorry for thinking of you as less than human, just because of where you live. I'm sorry for being a spoiled rich kid who's made assumptions about places he's never been to for my entire life."

"Well in that case," she accepted the proffered garment. "Apology accepted, Jace Wayland."

* * *

 _13:00pm, September 8 1888, Taki's_

"How did it go? What lavish goods do you bring back to this household, today?" Magnus asked cheerfully, leaning against the bar to his tavern and inn, surveying the redhead with a jolly interest, taking in her empty hands with obvious disappointment. Clary shrugged as the door swung shut behind her. It was the hour before lunch when the tavern - Taki's - was closed, and the only person in the main room was Catarina, Magnus' friend and co-owner of the franchise. Catarina was sweeping the floor of broken glass and nodded at Clary as she came in. She knew the older woman didn't approve of her activities, but they liked each other well enough as people.

Clary had spent another four hours or so looking for potential targets and trying to use the rest of the crowd to steal at least _something_ of value. A few times she had seen dropped silvers lying in the street and pocketed them. Purely by doing that she could have gained an average day's harvest, but her slip up earlier had instilled some sort of fire in her to prove herself. Her pride had taken a beating, and now she had sworn to redeem her skills.

Finally, when the crowd no longer rendered the High Street incapable of passage, and her ankles were aching from the tension she kept coiled in them, ready to move, she had retreated back down the road to where Osborn Street joined Whitechapel Road, walked up that a bit, then dodged into the alleys that were her territory to avoid the peeler she could see pacing ahead. Not that she couldn't escape from him if he stopped to ask her awkward questions, like why she was carrying stolen goods, but she would rather not have her face flagged as a known felon.

When she'd reached Miller's Court, she'd stopped to relish in the familiar roll of heat emanating from the roaring fires in each of the taverns - which burned even at noon - and the burning sun of the Ides of September. Everything about the square felt like home to her: from the stench of gin-ridden vomit, to the squeak of rats scurrying through the non-existent gutter, to the constant, calculating glares of the paupers who couldn't afford to stay at Taki's, which was one of the better quality inns.

She could imagine plenty of middle and upper class citizens turning their noses up at her lifestyle, and had seen many a policeman - whether they be from The Metropolitan Force or the City of London - wrinkling theirs. But it was all she'd ever known, and she knew it was luxury compared to what the twelve hundred odd prostitutes had to put up with.

"Oh no," Magnus said now, eyeing her dejected posture as she strode through the room like she owned it. "What went wrong?"

Clary pulled up the high stool behind the bar and sat with her elbows on the counter, directly opposite from Magnus. She thumped down the handful of goods she'd nicked: Jace's handkerchief, five gold and silver pieces, two coppers, three shillings, and a beat-up bronze pocket watch. She saw her benefactor raise his eyebrow. "Not a bad haul, biscuit." He whistled as he polished a glass.

"We do better once we've made mistakes," she murmured in response. He looked up at her low voice.

"What's been bothering you?"

"I got caught," she mumbled. To his credit, Magnus remained calm, though the parental worry radiated off of him.

"Well, mistakes are made by the best of us," he consoled soothingly. "How come you're here and not in some labour camp?"

She recounted her tale of what happened, Magnus' eyebrows disappearing further and further into his hairline as he abandoned his task and turned his full focus onto what she was telling him. She didn't need to look to know that Catarina was listening just as intently.

Those two had been like parents to her ever since her own had passed away. Jocelyn and Luke Fray had been respectable citizens of Ireland, before the potato famine came and forced them to migrate to London, where they ended up in Whitechapel. Clary had been born soon after. They had both been struck by cholera about five years ago, leaving a twelve-year-old Clary desperate for food and money. She had taken to pick pocketing the policemen who patrolled the area, and thankfully never got caught. To sell her stolen goods she would come to Magnus, who took pity on her and gave her permanent lodgings in his inn. She worked in the bar during the evenings, and all in all became a part of a little family comprised of her, Magnus, Catarina, and Simon, who was another immigrant: a Jewish boy who worked the bar during the afternoons. He and Clary were close friends.

There had been two other owners who owned a share in the franchise, Ragnor Fell and Tessa Gray, but a few months after Clary's arrival Ragnor had gone on a 'retirement trip' to Peru, and Tessa had married into a higher class. Clary forgot her new last name.

"Are you actually going to meet him there?" Magnus asked her seriously.

She shrugged. "Do I have a choice?" Magnus couldn't argue with her on that point. "You're not... upset, that I failed?" She asked tentatively, with nervousness that wasn't faked. Magnus' gold-green eyes softened.

"Of course not," he said reassuringly, then said in a more joking tone "and I'm not going to throw you out, if that's what you're worried about. You're the only reason I don't have to pay protection money."

Clary grinned at him at that, knowing he was kidding. Protection money was a payment business owners had to deliver to the local gangs in Whitechapel, so they wouldn't wake up one day with their windows smashed in. Magnus had always made a habit of joking that she somehow freed him from having to do so, but he never seemed inclined to elaborate.

Just then a loud creaking on the worm-eaten stairs round the back alerted the three to the waking of the fourth and final permanent resident. Simon Lewis slowly plodded towards them, eyes shadowed and still full of sleep. Simon, as well as having the afternoon shift, had to supervise the tavern until three am, when Catarina first got up, so he had the right to sleep in. Not to mention he took the responsibility of stealing from the last few dregs of people walking the streets once evening fell and Clary was on her shift at Taki's. "Morning," he said optimistically, or as optimistic as one could get in Whitechapel.

"More like afternoon," Clary admonished, but she was smiling. She and Simon were like siblings, and used as much banter as they did as well.

"Details, Fray." He said, sitting down next to her at the bar and snagging a slightly old apple from the bowl set out. He bit into it, made a face like he always did, but kept eating until it was gone. "How went pick pocketing?" He asked absently.

Magnus planted his palms onto the counter and leaned forward. If that didn't get Simon's attention, his words certainly did. "Clary got caught."

The effect was instantaneous. Her dark-haired friend whipped round to face her. His mouth hang open in shock, with strips of apple dangling out, and his chocolate eyes were wide. "What?" He all but shrieked.

She grimaced mildly, and he spluttered. He looked like someone had told him the stars were made of sparkling rocks. " _You_ don't get caught, " he stated, pointing an accusing finger at her. "What happened?!"

She recounted the tale again, this time in less detail with more cursing of the incriminating coin. Simon shook his head.

"But you're the best." He said. "If you got caught, what hope does everyone else have?"

She picked up one of the silver coins resting on the table and flipped it. She caught it out of mid-air, then looked at the side it had come up on: the head of Queen Victoria stared disapprovingly up at her, the abundant jewels she was bedecked with seemingly to taunt her. "No hope, Simon. None at all." Her voice was sarcastic with a flavour of bitterness. "No one had any hope to begin with. We all know we'll die young compared to those rich kids who can actually afford the bare necessities of life. The reason we fight for survival is to determine how young that is."

Her sudden change in demeanour, like a thunder-filled cloud suddenly blocking out the sky's light, shocked everyone in the room into a silence that Clary at once sought to break.

"So how did the night shift go?" She asked, turning to her friend. He raised an eyebrow at her knowingly; it was a well-known fact that Clary hated small talk. But he humoured her.

"As loud and insufferably boisterous as ever." He sighed. "Come two am I was cleaning up someone's vomit."

"Again," she grinned at him, though she empathised. It wasn't the first time it had happened to either of them. "Male or female?"

"I couldn't tell." She laughed with him, before a thought seemed to strike him. He leaned over to the shelves on the inside of the counter and pulled out a grimy letter, with a familiar scrawl on it that made a grin spread over her face. "Jonathan dropped by."

She unfolded the note, reading with excitement the short message written there.

* * *

 **Was this any good?**

 **By the way, I'm trying to make the chapters longer than I normally have them in this story. This will probably mean slower updates, and more grammar/spelling mistakes (I can't proofread in as much depth). Is anyone interested in betaing this story, so you don't have to suffer through reading the mistakes?**

 **Review?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed! The feedback I got was really heartening and made me smile so much.**

 **I think something went wrong on the last chapter, and the story didn't appear in the general archive. Hopefully this has more luck.**

 **Disclaimer: Again, I don't own TMI.**

* * *

 _16:00pm, September 8 1888, An Alleyway Between Goulston Street and Commercial Street_

"Jonathan, I can hear you," Clary said, her tone slow and clear like she was explaining something to a child, but her lips twitched. The dark-eyed boy gave her a knowing grin when she turned around. He always tried to sneak up on her whenever they met - and always failed.

"I got closer than usual, though," her friend argued back as he came to stand in front of her. She tilted her head up to meet his eyes. He gazed down at her with undisguised fondness. "You're losing your touch, my dear."

Her teasing, cheerful demeanour that had lingered since she received his note asking to meet her there dissipated instantly, replaced by the horrible feeling that came from the fact she'd failed. "One would think that, judging by what happened earlier." She huffed in annoyance. It had bothered her more than she'd let on.

Despite the fact it was only a few hours after high noon, the resident pea-soup fog that served as a veil a few metres above the alley floor filtered the light to make it resemble dusk. Nevertheless, it was enough to clearly outline the concern and worry that struck Jonathan's angular face like wind striking a wind-chime. "What happened, Clary?" He asked. Light caught in his ivory hair, ringing his head like a halo of silver beads.

She turned away from him. There was a low brick wall running parallel to the back of the nearest house and she hopped up onto it, deftly avoiding the crumbling unstable sections. She flung her slender arms out to either side to balance herself as she felt the wind whip through her hair. The soft pad of footsteps to her right told her Jonathan was still following her as she walked. "I got caught," she mumbled, half to herself.

She continued on her precarious path, but after a moment she realised Jonathan was no longer beside her. She looked back to see him standing stock still, as rigid as a black and white marble statue. She cocked her head in question.

"You. Got. Caught." He stated slowly. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"If you're going to go on about how that's impossible, don't," Clary bit out. "Simon already gave me an earful."

An indecipherable expression flashed across his face. "You mean your friend who looks like a rat?"

She rolled her eyes. "We're all rats," she mused, looking down at the uneven paving. "We're all rats that carry our vices like fleas, and inhabit the darkest, dingiest places in London, and are pests that the majority of the world prefer to pretend don't exist, and the ones that do it's just to wipe us out one by one like the vermin we are-"

"In a morbid mood, aren't we?" Jonathan interrupted her dark thoughts with a light, airy tone.

"Technically only I'm in a morbid mood. You're as insufferably cheerful as always." She quipped in response. She'd imagined he would shake his head in exasperation but when she glanced back to his face he was looking at her thoughtfully, his grin having faltered.

But before she could be sure, he was back to his sunny disposition and she saw no hint of clouds. "I don't suppose I could cheer you up with a present, my pessimistic friend?" He inquired slyly.

This captured her attention instantly; gifts were uncommon amongst their class. If you could afford it, then you would generally exchange them with your lover. But then again, Jonathan had a habit of not conforming to society's expectations. "Perhaps," she dragged it out cheerfully.

He studied her with an amused gleam to his obsidian eyes, then reached out a hand. "Come down and I'll give it to you; I can't take you seriously when you're taller than I am."

She stuck her tongue out at him playfully but allowed him to place his hands on her waist. She put hers on his shoulders and he lifted her down, gently setting her small feet on the broken ground. He held her there for a few long moments to make sure she was steady, then loosened his grip slightly.

Breaking away from his touch, she shifted herself so she was perched in a sitting position on the wall she was just standing on. Jonathan immediately looked indignant. "What was the point of me helping you down if you just went straight back up again?" He exclaimed.

She leaned forwards to place her right index fingers across his lips before they could shape any more words. He shivered at the breeze that rushed through the alley. "Hush," she said authoritatively. He obeyed. "At least I'm level with you now, rather than higher. It feels like you're talking down to me otherwise; you're too tall."

She felt him chuckle. "Can I talk now, or do you not want your gift, my dear Clarissa?"

Clary immediately removed her finger, and fidgeted where she sat in the mock interpretation of a young girl at Christmas, waiting to unwrap the presents under the newly-fashionable Christmas tree. He grinned at her as he reached into one of the deeper pockets of his dirtied-beyond-redemption waistcoat. There was a clinking that instantly put her in mind of the coin-and-handkerchief disaster earlier, but she relaxed and felt a slow beam spread across her cheeks as she saw what he pulled out.

It was a necklace of sorts, quite crudely made, where pennies mottled with black and red rust had holes bored into them so the thin chain could be threaded through. She took it from him with a light touch and let it slip through the fingers of her right hand to pool into her left palm. As the thin coins passed she studied the slowly dissolving monarch printed on one side. Some she recognised as Queen Victoria, other looked older, with the dates reading up to eighty years before the long-reigning royal was ever born. Clary couldn't read words very well - living in Whitechapel it wasn't a coveted skill - so she had trouble with the names, but she had learned basic number skills and how to identify dates, so she could guess roughly who the discs were showing her.

Without warning she threw herself off the wall at Jonathan, who hastily wrapped his arms round her torso in a firm embrace. She clung onto his neck, whispering "thank you, thank you" in his ear, whilst the chain in her hand clattered against her knuckles. A low rumble of his laughter trembled through her and he gripped her tightly, like he was trying to savour the moment. She knew she was.

When Jonathan finally released her, Clary was smiling so broadly her face hurt. She clasped the present around her neck and fingered the lowest hanging copper. The metal was cool and hard and comforting against her sweaty fingers.

"You don't need to worry about anyone trying to steal it," he was telling her, "because some of them are so old they're out of commission, and all of them are worthless in terms of trading now they have holes in them."

"It's the perfect keepsake," she finished, tears shining in her eyes. A look of panic flitted across his face before he seemed to understand they were tears of joy. "And it's not like I would have gone and spent the pennies, even if they were worth something." She joked.

For a moment, Jonathan looked almost wistful. "That's one of the things I love about you: You understand that some things are meant to be cherished."

* * *

"Are you ever going to tell her who you really are?"

Jonathan had lingered in the alley after Clary's scarlet head had disappeared, and his second-in-command, Sebastian, had joined him there from where he'd been watching around for any threats.

"I want to give her time before we introduce her to the darkest side of the East End." Jonathan replied, still lost in the thought of how tightly she'd held him, the tingles he got when she'd placed her fingers over his lips... "That is, if her friend - Magnus Bane? - doesn't give it away beforehand. He's been hinting at the truth to her."

"How oblivious she is," Sebastian stated, leaning back against the hard brick wall. His brown eyes - almost as dark as his leader's - flashed. Jonathan, as much as he hated hearing Clary get insulted in the slightest way, knew he couldn't argue with Sebastian, or ban him from doing so. The brunette was the only person he trusted not to stab him in the back or hurt his redhead just to hurt him. The rest of his followers served him out of fear rather than loyalty, and they were already a bit too curious as to why he threatened all the other taverns in the area but left Taki's untouched.

"She's a dreamer," Jonathan murmured, half to himself.

Sebastian snorted. " _Dreams_. You open yourself up to the world so you can grab them, but all that enters the open rip is darkness."

"Clary doesn't have darkness inside her." The ivory blonde argued.

"It didn't sound that way when she was rambling about rats." His friend countered in a low voice. "I'm just rushing you to tell her the truth because you need more willing followers. So far it's just me. Your girl is street smart, and know how to size up her opponent. She'll make a good addition once she gets her head out of the clouds."

"You say that like it's a given," Jonathan pointed out, suddenly unsure of what his friend would say.

"Because it is." Said friend answered simply.

The blonde turned back to the end of the alley, where he watched the fog move to reflect the light differently, although he knew that Clary was long gone: gone to start her shift at her tavern, a part of the simple routine of her fortunate life. "Just let her have a few more weeks of innocence."

"No one's innocent." Sebastian sighed; he hated pushing his friend when he was so obviously conflicted. "And we may soon have a mutiny on our hands."

"For her to stay with us, she would have to have fallen as hard for me as I have for her."

A slow clapping made him turn an amused smirk on his friend, as the brunette made his hands collide. "You finally acknowledged it. Thank goodness. I was sick of you acting like a love struck teenager."

Jonathan turned his head to face his friend. "I _am_ a teenager."

"But you can't afford the luxury of acting love struck. Your father trusted this legacy to you, and you need to carry it proudly."

The blonde breathed a strangled breath. "I always do."

* * *

 _18:30pm, September 8 1888, Taki's_

Clary blanched at the sound of vomit splattering on the pavement just out the front. That wouldn't be the prettiest sight to walk in to. Not to mention she'd be the poor unfortunate soul who had to clear it up.

With gritted teeth, she clenched the glass in her left hand with bruising force, before bringing it down on the counter in front of the customer with a jarring thud. The person before her - a middle-aged man with dull grey eyes like circles drawn in graphite - ceased his pathetic attempts of flirting with her to seemingly take in her suddenly grim mood. After she'd filled his glass he took his drink then turned to skedaddle. Good. Listening to _that_ had made her rather put out.

She barely glanced up when the door swung open again. The bell above it had been ringing almost non-stop since the beginning of her shift; Taki's was a popular place to be after six in the evening. The time of the year meant that somewhere in the country, where the atmosphere wasn't so polluted, it would still be fairly light, but not in London, the capital. So lots of people seemed to treat the early hour as night and used it as an used to _have fun_.

When, however, the intense and total hush fell on the usually bawdy, rowdy occupants of the bar, she wondered what could have gotten into them.

At a glance, there didn't seem to have been any change in personage. The demeanour of the room was the same (aside from the uncharacteristic silence): uncontrolled, rough, and utterly carefree. The people who came here had too much to care about to begin with. But when she dragged her icy eyes over them all, they came to rest on a huddled figure who had most decidedly _not_ been there before. He was clinging to the shadows in the booth closest to the stairs at the back, even behind the doors to the kitchens.

Even from here, she could vaguely recognise the bright blue uniform of the Metropolitan Police. That explained the strange quiet. She couldn't, however, recognise which one it was, but she was sure that he was afforded an excellent view of any criminal activity from his chosen position.

She bristled at the indignity. Taki's was a respectable business, and yet they deemed it acceptable to send a pompous officer to _supervise_ them? Admittedly, a scrap of criminal activity did occur here - stealing from fellow customers and occasional gambling and the like - but there was no incentive for them to do this! Her blood was boiling, but she bowed her head in an unconcerned arch.

The harsh scraping of the stool against the dusty floorboards set her teeth on edge. She flicked her gaze up from where she had been polishing the counter for the umpteenth time. A man who looked to be maybe five years older than her - so about twenty three - was glaring daggers into her. He cleared his throat and she looked at him, a faux expression that was a seamless blend between curiosity and respect. He grinned cruelly as he inspected her, eyes shamelessly roving up and down her petite frame. She fought the urge to roll her eyes and instead decided to sweetly ask "Can I help you?" It may have come out a bit irritated.

His wicked expression dropped then. He replaced it with a look that was surprisingly scary. Clary would have been intimidated - the desired effect - if it wasn't abundantly clear just how hard he was trying. She sighed to herself.

The man leaned forward and said in a low voice, that nevertheless trembled. "How much would you be willing to pay to ensure your tavern doesn't have any... accidents... done to it?" He asked, only slightly menacingly. She couldn't be bothered to point out the incorrect grammar in his sentence.

She met his threatening gaze with a cool, undisturbed one of her own. Although - to his credit - he didn't show it, she could tell his feathers were ruffled by her calm state and lack of fear. "It depends who's asking," she replied, in the assured tone of someone in control. He didn't appear to like that.

Nevertheless, he grinned again, baring his teeth like a shark trying to spook a dolphin. "I am a highly ranked member of the Morgenstern gang; it would not do you good to cross-"

"You do realise there's a peeler in the corner, don't you?" She interrupted with audacity. She saw the spark of panic swirl in his green irises as he took in the mentioned policeman, and without another word he scattered off into the dawning dusk.

"Coward," she muttered bitterly, returning to polishing the counter. It was practically a mirror now. "Just a bloody coward."

Clary glanced back over at the policeman in the corner - and froze. He was looking back at her. She still couldn't make out his facial features, and after a moment of eye contact he turned back to face the wall.

She frowned. If he'd come in here and was staring at the wall, cloaking in shadows in the corner, as opposed to constantly being on the hunt to scout out criminals, then that meant he wasn't sent here. He was in Taki's of his own free will. Why would a police officer - more than likely of a respectable class - willingly rub elbows with a bunch of lowlife East End dwellers?

She'd been so lost in thought as she stared at her reflection in the damp counter that she didn't notice the peeler had moved until he tapped a long finger on the wood she was staring at.

Clary immediately yanked her attention back to the current situation and jerked her gaze up to meet a familiar officer's blue, amused one. "Officer Lightwood," she greeted, recovering her composure startlingly swiftly. If he was surprised she knew his name, he didn't show it. "What can I get you?"

A faint quirk of his lips told her he found her amusing in some way. It made her defensive. "What do you generally get regular customers?" He countered, drumming his fingers lightly on the bar. She fought the impulse to scowl.

She pretended to consider, despite it being a question that didn't need to be considered. "Generally it's gin. Gin is more popular than water."

He raised one, raven-dark eyebrow at her. "Of course it is. It was recently discovered that it's the fact we dump sewage into our water supply that causes cholera to spread." She nodded; that sounded reasonable. She waited for him to go on, and he seemed to take the hint. "But, by all means, I'll have gin."

She got out another glass and carefully poured the sparkling liquid inside. When he took it, simultaneously passing across payment, he took a sip and wrinkled his nose. "This is so strong. How do people get through bottles of this stuff?"

She shrugged. "Some do; some don't. Some can't even down half a glass. Surely you saw the puddle of vomit out the front." He nodded, cringing at the memory. She made a face back, and they both laughed slightly. "I have to be the one to clean that up," she commented lightly, before a darker thought hit. "I suppose it beats cleaning up broken glass," she murmured, half to herself.

"Yes, I heard that conversation." Lightwood admitted, taking another tentative sip. He still winced. "You handled it well. Does Taki's ever have to pay out protection money?"

"No. And don't ask why, because I don't know." She felt his eyes searching her face for textbook signs of a falsehood and continued blithely "I'm not lying. Magnus always jokes that it's because of me, but he never elaborates."

She knew the policeman's brain was ticking away like a grandfather clock, but she paid him no heed. She turned to serve another customer hurriedly, before turning back to him. "So," she said cheerfully. "What brings you here, Officer Lightwood?"

He furrowed his brows as he turned to her. "Don't call me that," he admonished. "It sounds too formal; I'm not on duty."

"Then what should I call you?" She asked innocently, masking her surprise with expertise.

"Alec," he answered without missing a beat. "It's what my siblings call me. Short for Alexander."

"Clary," she responded with a faint smile. "It's what my friends call me. Short for Clarissa." She raised her eyes to meet his. He seemed vaguely surprised, but didn't explain why. "So what brings you here?"

He grinned slightly, but there was nothing of the other man's grin in his. His was bright. "I wanted a place to mope where I wouldn't be judged."

She raised both eyebrows, but didn't comment or pry. She had a feeling that wouldn't be well received.

Out of the corner of her eye she spied a twelve year old boy eyeing Alec's open wallet in his open pocket. She narrowed her eyes at the boy and he scampered off, sensing the ensuing fight would not be worth it. "You need to guard your money better," she mentioned to her new friend. "People are drooling at the opportunity."

His eyes twinkled as he did what she recommended, and transferred it to a closed pocket. "I'm surprised you haven't tried to pick pocket me yet." He joked.

"There is a time and a place for pick pocketing," she said mock solemnly. "It would be unwise to gain the tavern a reputation for having unreliable staff."

He nodded his head wisely. "I agree. And it wouldn't put you in favour with the authorities either."

She snorted. "You say that like they hold sway here."

He looked like he wanted to protest, but couldn't find the energy to. Instead he switched topics. "Did you hear about the Jew who was accused of the murder earlier?"

She hadn't, to her own shock. Usually she knew these things first. "No."

Alec sighed. For the first time Clary noticed the dark bags under his eyes, and the spot of white on his fingernails. "Is your division working pretty hard to solve the murder, then?" She asked sympathetically.

He only shook his head. "You have no idea." A moment of silence. Then "It doesn't help that the Metropolitan Police and the City of London Police are always at odds. If we just _collaborated_ we might actually stand a chance. As it is, we've got next to no clues and no substantial leads for finding the killer."

At that point the door swung open to reveal Simon, bedecked in his shabby clothes. Clary's eyes grew wide as she realised what he must be carrying.

"Clary!" He called happily, striding in and plopping himself into the stool next to Alec. He didn't notice who was next to him. "Look what I gathered-"

He began to reach into his pockets. Clary heard the distinct clink of coins before she hissed "Simon!" in such an urgent voice he stopped what he was doing instantly and stared at her. He flicked her eyes to Alec. Simon, following her gaze, dropped his jaw, and visibly deflated. Needless to say, he shut up.

Alec had watched their exchange with baffled, suspicious eyes, but then they lit up in understanding. He chuckled to himself as he exited the tavern, calling over his shoulder. "See you tomorrow, Clary!"

Said girl put her head in her hands. Simon gazed in bemusement. "What was that?"

"Honestly," she took her face out of her hands, though kept her elbows resting on the counter. "I don't even know."

* * *

 **I still need a beta for this. I will make mistakes when looking over it.**

 **Review?**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm going to try to update every other week, on Friday. But that's very flexible. Writing around four thousand words is harder than I thought it would be.**

 **Thanks to Shauna Kullden for betaing this!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Mortal Instruments, or any characters from that series.**

* * *

 _15:00pm, September 8 1888, Saint George Street_

Jace's hand drifted towards his pocket, where he ran his fingers over the coarse but delicate embroidery on his handkerchief. It was like brushing his fingers over soft calloused palms. Sometimes he wondered whether his mother's hands had felt like that, before she had been killed in a drunken brawl.

Celine Montclaire had been a seamstress to Maryse Trueblood, when she was a young girl and then later when she married Robert Lightwood. Eventually, despite her close friendship with Maryse, she had been fired from the household due to her drinking habits. She had been forced to turn to prostitution, and at one point, had gotten pregnant with Jace.

One day, Maryse had woken up to find a crying child on her doorstep and a note from her old friend, explaining who the boy was. His last name had come from the only customer Celine had remembered having. Since the fathers of illegitimate children were legally required to pay for their upkeep, they had tried to track Michael Wayland down, but he'd been found dead from alcohol poisoning soon after.

Thus, Jace was left to be raised by the Lightwoods alongside Alec, Isabelle, and Max.

He had few possessions that had been his mother's. One was the handkerchief, another was the note she'd left, and the last was a heavy silver ring with a stamped pattern of herons encircling it. Due to his fear of it being lost, he didn't wear it often. Pickpockets could strike at any moment; whenever it suited them.

As today had proved.

He smiled faintly, but without humour, at his memory of the scarlet-haired street urchin who had almost taken one of his most prized possessions.

She was good; he had to admit. He hadn't heard or felt a thing until the coin clattered to the ground, and then after that he'd had to move faster than he ever had before in order to successfully clasp her wrist and foil her escape. Perhaps it was the emotion behind the potential loss that made him react so quickly.

He still remembered her rigid, wary posture and the alert light that turned her green eyes to mirrors. He'd seen himself reflected in her eyes, and realised how easily he - an illegitimate son of a prostitute - could have ended up like her, or worse. Pity was part of the reason he'd let her go.

But not the whole of it. Something about the proud way she held herself, and the sense that she would fight tooth and nail to get away, told him that his pity would only be chewed up and spat back in his face. He admired that about her: not only had she scraped a living in London's cruellest corner, but she'd salvaged her dignity as well.

Maybe that was why he'd let her go and traded the blue handkerchief for his mother's. Or maybe he did it because he and Isabelle were genuinely planning on writing about Whitechapel and their job would be made a lot easier if they had a tour of the place.

He turned back to the typewriter he was supposed to be using to type up a report about the Whitechapel murders for the newspaper he worked for, but he found himself with a writers block. How was he meant to explain that the police had no clue what was happening, and that theoretically the murderer could target anyone in Whitechapel? That would send half of London into mass panic.

But he couldn't just blow off the job and write a half-hearted article. Not only would it ruin the newspaper's reputation, but the owner of the company would have his head. Robert Lightwood might be his adoptive father, but that man was a workaholic and didn't believe in not giving your all.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of black hair and hastily shifted in his seat in a pathetic attempt of shielding the unused typewriter and the blank sheet of paper from sight of the person standing in the doorway.

Alec smirked, but gave him a pitying look, like he'd finally accepted that Jace's future involved at least one stay in Bridewell. His brother sauntered into the room, but his jaw was clenched. Jace furrowed his brows. "Are you alright?"

The brunette looked up, startled by the question. When his eyes met Jace's, and he saw that the blonde was being serious, he sighed. "Nothing. I'm fine, Jace."

The young man in question's only response was to narrow his aureate eyes. "Don't lie, Alexander."

Alec cast his gaze to the carpeted floorboards and shifted on the balls of his feet. He fiddled with the cuffs of his uniform. Finally he looked back up. "It's just the fact there's been another murder. We have no idea who could have the expertise to have done it, we're fighting over the clues like dogs over scraps of meat, and I caught three people trying to pickpocket me earlier."

Jace raised an eyebrow, even as he was stifling a laugh. "What did you do to them?"

His brother only rolled his eyes, though he still looked a tiny bit guilty, in a petulant way. "I set them a month of labour, picking oakum."

Jace tilted his head at Alec, golden hair brushing his forehead. "I thought that was the punishment for 'idle and disorderly persons'," he quoted, flexing his fingers. "You don't count pickpocketing as a job?"

Alec's comically disapproving expression was enough of an answer.

One of Jace's long fingers built for tapping at the keys caressed one of the letters on the typewriter. "I was pickpocketed today." He said idly. In his peripheral vision he saw Alec stiffen.

"You were pickpocketed?" His brother asked, though his tone was more curious and amused than angry. "What did they take? And how do you know?"

Jace smirked. "I caught them." Alec's snort conveyed his disbelief. "Seriously." Having caught his attention, his brother motioned for him to go on. "She was really good. As in: I couldn't see, hear, or feel her stealing from me until she accidentally dislodged some loose change in my pocket and it clanged against the ground. She tried to run - and she was fast - but she'd tried to steal my mother's handkerchief and there was no way I'm letting her get away with that."

"So what did you do?" His brother was unashamedly curious now.

"I talked to her a bit, and she seemed like a nice girl, so I let her go."

He could tell his brother's sense of righteousness and justice was warring with the more humane side of him.

Eventually Alec stated in a low voice "You. Let. Her. Go."

Jace nodded, then went to interrupt his brother before he said something. "Wait! You haven't heard everything yet. I got her to give me back my handkerchief in return for a different one, then let her go. Provided she gives Izzy and I a tour of Whitechapel tomorrow."

Alec blanched. "Oh Jace, you didn't-"

"I did."

Alec looked ready to cry at his brother's stupidity. "You're planning to willingly walk yourself and our sister into the heart of the lion's den being led by a person you only just met. And all for research for some book you two are planning on writing?"

Jace suddenly looked sheepish. "Well..."

"Do I want to know?"

"There's a chance I said 'siblings' so..."

"No," Jace couldn't smother a bark of laughter at the brunette's disgruntled expression. Alec was staring a hole in him with horror. "I refuse to join you on this mindless escapade."

"Come on, Alec." He responded. "You have your break day tomorrow. You can easily come with us, and the sight of a police officer might scare off any troublemakers."

"Except the one who's leading you in the rat's alley," his brother countered. Jace huffed.

"Please, Alec?" The wavering expression on his face gave the blonde hope. He just needed the right words. "For Isabelle. You know how passionate she is about reforming the slums - Whitechapel in particular, since the murders started - and this book of ours could really raise awareness about the truth of the matter, rather than the twisted propaganda you see in the press."

"You work for the press." Alec pointed out, but he had already surrendered. "But fine, I'll escort you."

Jace wrinkled his nose. "'Escort'? We're not kids."

Alec sighed patronisingly. "Isabelle isn't, at least." He grinned at Jace, before exiting the room.

"Where are you going?" Jace shouted after him when he realised he wasn't taking his coat or shoes off.

"Out," was the only reply. Jace rolled his eyes at Alec's natural ability to be cryptic.

"Don't get drunk!" He yelled at the retreating back. He chuckled when Alec stuck his tongue out at him.

* * *

 _19:00pm, September 8 1888, St George's Street_

"I would have thought you'd be finished sooner," Robert Lightwood, Jace's adoptive father and boss, commented with an ease that belied the underlying meaning. The man's broad shoulders seemed to take up the entire room, making Jace feel claustrophobic. He never knew how he created such an intimidating aura, but it meant that he'd never really grown to see him as a father figure that much. You can't really say you know someone when every time you see them their dark hair is parted with a brutally precise line.

The blonde swallowed, still flexing his fingers. They were stiff from four hours of tapping keys. That was why he couldn't keep them still. It wasn't because of nervousness that Robert wouldn't like his piece; Not only was it amazing - most things he produced were - but he didn't care what anyone thought of him. He was Jace Wayland. He came from a family with no dignity, but had his pride.

So why did the Lightwood patriarch's frown cut into him so deeply, and why did the disapproving glance thrown contemptuously over his monocle give him the feeling his heart was a stone in troubled waters?

Robert sighed. The limp sheet of paper, mapped with carefully inked letters, fluttered to land face down on the polished desk as the blue-eyed man folded his hands before him to eye his employee critically.

Jace gulped and glanced down at his own intertwined fingers. The gold sheen to them still shone, at no risk of disappearing thanks to the summer sun. He inspected his hands, facing his palms upwards. Rough callouses burnished the pads of his fingers, but otherwise the soft pink skin that his hands were composed from was smooth and unscarred. Not a fleck of dirt marred the miniscule ridges adorning his skin, although a thin layer of ink was smudged along his love line, testament to the tight grip he held the sheets of paper in when he was presenting them to his father.

Overall, they were hands that told anyone who knew what to look for, that though his life hadn't been the pomp-filled luxury that some nobles experienced, it hadn't been difficult either.

His mind flashed back to the red-haired pickpocket he'd met earlier. How her green eyes sparked with rebellion, unrest and anarchy. How she met every verbal jab of his with her own lethal words. How she eyed him like he was the enemy, even though she'd been the one to openly steal from him.

He wondered vaguely whether that would have been how he would have turned out, if his mother had chosen to raise him alongside her fellow prostitutes and criminals in London's darkest corner. As different as she was, Clary still appeared to hold that concentrated nugget of bitter hatred to whoever was more fortunate than her, or dared to pity her. It was the same emotion he saw expressed in half the gazes sent his way whenever he walked through the East End; deeply rooted into the subconscious of the unfortunate soul who threw him a glare.

The rest of them, their gazes either just passed over him in a glazed blur, or with an empty, hollow stare.

He turned his hands over. The tendons that pressed against the skin and cast contours over his hands moved as his wriggled his fingers. What would these hands have looked like now if things had turned out differently?

"Jace," Robert sighed, snapping the blond man's attention back to where he was and who he was talking to. The newspaper owner ran his thick fingers through his hair and keened forward onto his elbows. "I understand I'm putting you under a lot of pressure. I really do. So can we talk through this problem of yours like men?"

Jace nodded, unsure of how to respond. He punctuated it with an "of course" for good measure.

His adoptive father sighed again. Every sigh he took seemed to be from a different emotion. This one appeared to be from regret. "Your report is too biased," he said bluntly. Jace was silent for a moment. When Robert realised he wouldn't get a response, he elaborated.

He picked up the sheet before him and skimmed over it critically. "You side with the police too often. 'Their heroic efforts remain futile'? 'An officer gently but forcefully tries to dissuade those who came to see the crime scene themselves, as they busy themselves with washing away all traces of the monstrosity'? You're being too soft on them. The police are useless, and have less chance of catching the murderer than a pub owner."

Jace's fists clenched of their own accord. "But Alec said-" he protested, only to be cut off by a harsh wave of his boss' hand.

Suddenly Robert's eyes were leaping blue flames. "Alexander is a member of the Metropolitan Police. He is required to say whatever he can think of to disinterest the press and keep the public from panicking. We do not share the same ends as them. We are charged with releasing the truth for the world to see, no matter how destructive it is, not assisting in keeping it hidden."

Jace's fists slowly unclenched as he looked on in bewilderment. "What truth in particular?"

Robert's expression was grim. His voice grew gradually lower and more menacing as the sentence progressed. "That the Metropolitan Police and the City of London Police are too busy warring with one another to heed a warning. That the truth is, the murderer could come into any one of our houses at night and slit our throats where we sleep."

Jace, who'd leaned in further and further as he tried to catch what his adoptive father was saying, suddenly sprung backwards. His spine collided with the rigid wood of the chair and the front two legs of the seat lifted off the ground as he rocked. He gasped out "We can't do that. It'll cause chaos."

"Exactly," Robert said, just as cryptic as his son. Was it a family trait? "It will cause chaos, because it's believable. The public hate the police; everybody knows that. They'll lap up a story that laments about their failings. It may not be the whole truth, but it's a reasonable truth and no one will question it. If we publish your sappy article about how they are doing their best then the only emotions spurred in the public will be outrage and disgust. I'll be under scrutiny, and we might well lose most of our readers." His voice dropped drastically all of a sudden. "I'm already criticised for having my adoptive son in the coveted position of apprentice journalist. It will be even worse if it turns out he's an awful writer."

"I see," was all Jace said, despite the fact he really didn't.

Robert beamed. "I knew you would. You're a bright kid, Jace." He slouched back in his imposing chair, scratching his chin thoughtfully. Despite his blatant belief in Jace's understanding, he went to explain it again anyway. "The truth can be twisted into different perceptions. It's still the truth, but it can influence people differently, which is where it's power comes from. Never forget that."

"I won't," came the monotone reply. Robert beamed even brighter.

"Good," he gestured at the three pieces of paper cluttered with smudged ink before him. "Well then, scrap these and rewrite your report. Make sure it's something the higher class would want to read and agree with."

A soft knock sounded at the door just as Jace was standing. Robert's jovial expression immediately dropped into a more business like demeanour.

"Come in," he called out gruffly.

The heavy door swung open to admit the beauteous Isabelle Lightwood. Her long midnight hair was unbound and rained down, around her face, which was creased with apology. Jace expected the exasperation that flashed in Robert's eyes as they landed on his daughter's less-than-modest crimson gown, but his face still retained a degree of fondness as he gazed on his child, especially when he picked up on the Lightwood heirloom she wore: a ruby the size of a baby's delicate fist.

"My apologies, father," she simpered, but the way she slouched against the door frame told him she hated giving them. "But could I borrow Jace for a moment?"

Robert smiled softly. "Of course. We were done here anyway." He gathered up the papers and handed them back to Jace. "I hope to see some improvement."

"Of course, sir," the employee nodded respectfully, before ducking out of the room after his sister.

Isabelle led him down several halls before she turned and spoke. Her dark brown eyes - so different to those of her parents and brothers - glinted at him curiously. "As soon as he got back, Alec told me you had a death wish that included me for once. I tried to get him to elaborate, but he refused and went back to moping in his room." She folded her hands, like her father had not twenty minutes before, but in a much more elegant fashion. "So, I decided to track you down and ask you myself."

She smiled mischievously before she continued. "Then I heard you getting The Truth Lecture and decided to get you out of there as soon as possible." Her smile turned to a wicked grin. "You can rain your thanks and adoration on me now."

He let out a short chuckle. "Thanks for the thought and intentions, Izzy, but you came a bit too late. He was already finished filling my poor head with persiflage."

The girl seemed to deflate visibly, but nothing could deflate her completely. "But still, what reckless journey are you finally allowing me to participate in?" She raised one thin, dark eyebrow. "Alec said you'd persuaded him to come along too, 'for your own safety'."

Jace smirked at her. "Well, remember that book we were planning on writing..."

Isabelle's eyes instantly lit up. It was one of the reasons Robert loved his daughter so much; she was so passionate about using the power of words to change people, and through them, the world. He knew Robert wanted to leave the company to her, and between them, the fact she was a woman was a minor obstacle to crush. "Yes." She stated decisively.

"Well, I got us a tour guide to go around Whitechapel and get a coveted insight into what life is like there," he continued, feeling slightly like a person on the street trying to sell his wares.

Instantly his sister narrowed her eyes. "How?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "I got pickpocketed."

"That seems like an odd way to hire a tour guide."

He gave a bark of laughter. "In summary: in Whitechapel I got pickpocketed and caught the girl before she could escape. Since she seemed to know a lot about the place and people - don't ask me how I know that; it's hard to explain - I bargained with her and made her agree to give us an insight, provided I let her go instead of turn her in."

Isabelle blinked at his rushed explanation. "There's no way that was it. Your expression says there's more."

He shrugged. "She seemed interesting. I wanted to see how she'd managed to maintain her pride and state of mind even while living amongst the lowest of the low."

"There's more." Isabelle's relentless stare bore right through him.

"Fine!" He threw his hands up. "I want to be able to see the life I could have- or would have- lived if things had turned out differently."

She backed down, her probing gaze softening.

"Fair enough," the brunette said cheerfully. Her mood swings didn't faze Jace. "But if it turns out that some criminal decides you look like a tasty treat, it's on your head."

He returned her sardonic look. "I'll gladly throw myself in front of my little sister to save her from cannibals." He drawled dryly. She giggled.

At that moment, Alec poked his head round the door. He had that look on his face - the one that says they know something you don't. "By the way, Jace," he called amiably. "I think this pickpocket of yours might be an interesting case study after all."

Jace only stared at him, faintly astounded at his sudden optimism. "You finally got drunk didn't you?"

* * *

 **Review?**


	4. Chapter 4

**I now have a vague idea where this plotline is going, or at least quite a few ideas of what to do with it, so expect more updates in the not to distant future. It's around this chapter the story takes a turn for the darker, so enjoy!**

 **Thanks to the wonderful Shauna Kullden for betaing this for me!**

 **Disclaimer: I wish I owned TMI, but sadly, I don't.**

* * *

 _ _7:15am, September 9 1888, Mitre Square__

Jace glanced at his pocket watch for the fourth time that minute. For everything that was at stake, the street urchin was dangerously late to the appointed meeting place.

He would go so far as to venture a guess that she wasn't coming at all.

He glanced sideways at his siblings. Isabelle's dark eyes were scanning the place, lighting up every time they landed on something that interested her (so every other moment). Alec was leaning against a wall with what looked like chalk graffiti on it, not caring as the white powder muddied his uniform; he was only wearing it to make an impression on any potential threats. His brother tapped his foot impatiently and kept glancing at Jace with ill disguised irritation.

"Is she ever going to come?" Alec finally burst out. Jace only shrugged, though he was just as annoyed.

"Who knows?"

Suddenly Isabelle's head jerked up and her gaze fixed on something across the square. She pointed. "Is that her?"

Jace followed her gaze and saw the red headed thief standing outside a tavern, underneath a swinging sign that probably once read the tavern name, but was now so worn and muddied from the passage of time the words were illegible. She was talking merrily - with wide, expressive hand gestures - to a boy with olive skin and gangly arms. Jace huffed an exasperated breath, before marching over, trusting his siblings to follow.

"You're late," he said in a harsh tone, though it flickered slightly as her clear eyes met his, utterly unfazed.

"I'm not," she said in that singsong accent that was a confusing blend of her native tongue and the Whitechapel lilt. "I've been here over half an hour. It's not my fault you didn't care to spare your lessers a glance and look around."

Jace swallowed. How is it that with a few spite ridden words she could make him feel instantly guilty?

He threw an incredulous glance at Alec, acting shocked at her impertinence, but his fake shock turned real at the grin on his brother's face. "Alec?"

The brunette ignored him, instead tipping his absurdly tall police cap slightly at Clary and said "You told me you weren't a pickpocket, Clary."

The girl's attention was pulled away from the scowl directed at Jace, and her eyes landed on Alec. They widened in surprise, then realisation. "Offi-, Al-" she stuttered slightly, before giving up on deciding which name to address him with and just responded to his comment. "I never said that. I just said there was a time and place for it."

"Like eight o'clock in the morning in a crowded high street?" Jace butted in irritably. He didn't understand what had just happened and not knowing the facts annoyed him.

Clary looked back at him. "Evidently," she answered, very droll. Her friend stifled a laugh behind his hand.

Isabelle giggled. "I'm Isabelle," she said to Clary, holding her hand out. Jace noticed a momentary flicker of uncertainty cross her face before it was gone, and she accepted his sister's hand, shaking it firmly.

"Clary." Her voice almost sounded strangled. His sister, not appearing to notice, beamed brightly. She looped her arm through the thief's, again either oblivious to of ignoring the flash of astonishment hitting the smaller girl.

"That's such a pretty name!" The brunette gushed. "Do you know why your parents named you that? How old are you? What's it like living in Whitechapel? How do you know my brother?" She fired out questions at a rapid pace and Clary's large emerald eyes blinked in confusion - though he wasn't certain what she was confused about. The main thought running through his head was that if he didn't step up his game, Isabelle would take his position as apprentice in the firm.

Isabelle then caught sight of the redhead's wiry friend standing hesitantly on the fringes of the gathering, not quite separate but not quite welcomed. He seemed awestruck by the tall girl's face; Isabelle got that a lot. Her normal reaction though, was to very pointedly ignore them. Not blush and step forward giggling.

The boy's brown eyes widened significantly, and he hastily brought up his hand to grasp hers, which was outstretched. "Simon Lewis," he introduced himself eagerly. Jace saw Clary roll her eyes and fought the urge to smile.

"Isabelle Lightwood," came the quiet reply, and Simon leaned forward to catch it. As he did so a pendant from around his neck swung free. Jace squinted as it caught the light: it was the Star of David.

"You're Jewish?" He asked the boy. At the nod Jace glanced between Clary and Simon thoughtfully. An Irish girl and a Jewish boy, two people from the most hated communities in Whitechapel. "I guess it's true: outcasts really do stick together."

The faint smile on Clary's lips slipped away like a cloud in a gale. Her stony demeanour returned. "If you really want to label us," she said carefully. Her eyes flashed like shards of broken glass held up to catch the sunlight and start a fire. "I guess you could call us outcasts."

Simon smiled a hesitant smile then, tossing a startlingly fond gaze at his redheaded friend. Jace had mused out loud about outcasts without really thinking, the old phrase just springing to mind like a stone flung from a slingshot nailing him in the head. He hadn't thought about how Clary and Simon might have reacted to being called outcasts, hadn't been prepared to note Clary's bizarre mix of pride in her independent position and her bitterness towards the world for pushing her into that position. But in light of it, he had to admit that he was slightly caught off guard by the clear affection Simon held for his fellow outcast, and how ready they were to defend each other because of the position they were in.

It was almost beautiful.

At this revelation, Isabelle's eyes lit up, the curiosity bordering on nosiness rearing its head again. "So you two must have really seen the ugly side of London," she coaxed, her persuasive techniques all too familiar to Jace. But her efforts proved fruitless, as Clary shook her head.

"No, we haven't." She said, firmly, decisively.

Isabelle furrowed her brows "But-"

" _No."_ Came the surprisingly harsh response. Isabelle blinked, and expression of mingled hurt and shock flitting across her otherwise striking features. She opened her mouth to either retort or apologise. Jace would never know, because at that moment Clary sprung upright like a hare that has scented a hunter and flashed a blindingly brilliant smile. "Why don't we get going then?" She inquired cheerfully, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Only Simon refrained from eyeing her with apprehension at her mood swings.

With a baffling noise that was half grunt, half sigh, Alec pushed himself off the wall, absent-mindedly reaching back a hand to brush off the white chalk powder that had rubbed off onto his rich blue uniform as he followed after the petite redhead, who did a remarkable job of keeping pace with Isabelle's long strides. Simon was the last to move - apparently he was going with them, despite Jace's certainty that that hadn't been a part of the deal - and when he did he froze not a second after. When the rest of them stopped to see where Jace and Simon had lagged behind to, they found the olive-skinned boy staring aghast at the wall Alec had been leaning against, or - more specifically - the chalk graffiti on it.

With Alec's leaning, and the constant motion of air and rubbing shoulders wearing the words down, the evidently poor grammar and spelling, and the fact he was used to reading neat blck newsprints, Jace found he couldn't read the precise things the words said. But then he turned to Clary, only the find that the small girl had her gaze locked with her friend's, an equal look of terror and horror etched onto her face, freckles stark against her deathly white skin.

Simon stumbled back from the wall.

"Come on," Clary said. She jerked her head; a curtain of crimson hair formed a veil between her eyes and whatever the words said, like the world itself wished she hadn't seen it. "Let's get out of here"

* * *

 _ _10:00am, September 9 1888, An Alleyway Behind Batty Street__

Jace felt physically sick. It had been less than three hours since they started, and all they'd done was walk down the High Street, but with Clary and Simon's personal knowledge and anecdotes, and just _looking_ for once, he'd seen more suffering than he had in the entire nineteen years of his life. His stomach had especially turned when they passed by a teenage boy only a year or two younger than Jace himself, in the most inadequate clothes Jace could possibly imagine, blind, and sitting cross-legged on the waste coated pavement, singing his heart out whilst a total of three copper coins gleamed amongst the folds of his cap. Jace had pulled out as much change as he had and emptied it into the scrap of fabric.

They had barely walked two paces past when a pair of grubby children, one wearing the leather breeches that marked him as a charity-boy, so thin Jace could see their ribcages through their clothes ran by and swiped most of Jace's donation before running off with it. The singing boy didn't flinch, didn't appear to even notice, blind as he was.

The unwelcome thought, the one he couldn't suppress despite his best efforts: __That could have been me.__

Clary, at the front of the small group, saw where he'd loitered in front of the singer, hesitant to leave him behind like so much rubbish, but with nothing to offer but sympathy. And if Clary was any judge, sympathy would not be tolerated. "Blind singers earn double," she told him softly, when she saw his gaze linger on the boy's ruined eyes. "Everyone knows this, and seek to take advantage of it."

He spun, horrified. "He did this to himself _on purpose_?!"

She shook her head. "Some do. But not him. His father did it to him, before he died of starvation, so his son had more to eat." She knelt in front of the boy and pulled out several coins. Where she'd gotten them from, Jace didn't want to know. "Here, Julian," she whispered to him. "I'll see you at Taki's later. Take care of Emma."

She rose to her feet and gave Jace a look that said, _'_ _ _Aren't you coming?'__ before catching up to where Simon waited patiently with the others.

Jace leaned down and touched his soft cap, not sure if it was in benediction or farewell, before he hurried after her, mind whirling.

"...live." Simon was saying, gesturing to a building that was probably the least run down on the street. "It's one of the most popular with the higher class people coming down here looking for some night time 'fun', due to how much the residents make, so it's usually in better condition than some of the others. More befitting a person of their class." The way Simon said it made the words as dry as sun-shrivelled parchment. "It's owned by probably the richest woman in Whitechapel, Seelie Queen. We get some of her courtesans round at Taki's to... escape it all." Simon, suddenly looking uncomfortable, turned to Clary. "What's that blonde girl's name?"

"Kaelie. Kaelie Whitewillow." Clary filled in distractedy. She kept throwing glances back at the boy - Julian? - looking concerned. "And then her friend Meliorn as well. I don't know his last name." An older woman eyed Julian's earnings and Clary seemed to snarl at her. Whatever it was she did, it was frightening, and the woman scurried away.

Simon nodded. "So that means we see them a lot round there..." He continued talking to Isabelle and Alec, the former of whom was furiously scribbling in her notepad, but Jace tuned him out and tapped Clary's shoulder.

He murmured, "Why didn't you do that when those two kids nicked half of what I gave him?" He was almost accusing.

She cast him a look of disdain, fringed with something softer. "They were meant to do that. They're his siblings. Why else do you think his father did that to him to get more money?"

Jace's mouth dried up as he cast a glance back at the pitiful image. Simon had stopped talking and now they were all moving along. "Oh."

"'Oh' is right, Jace Wayland." She bit back. "If people see some poor kids stealing from an equally unfortunate boy, they won't attack the kids and get the money back, but they're likely to give the boy more money to make up for what he lost. It's a tactic their family is an expert at exploiting." She spoke without inflection, but her face was tight and she was subconsciously playing with something around her neck.

At closer inspection, it was a necklace. More of a rope strung with rusted old pennies that had holes bored in them, to be honest. It wasn't ugly, but it wasn't attractive either, and was closer to the former than the latter. He couldn't understand why she wore it.

A flash of white as she lifted her hand to wave to someone, before lowering it, disappointment tugging the muscles in her face into a drooping flower shape. He followed her gaze to see a tall man about the same age as himself, with a bob of steel-coloured hair. The figure was tall and lithe, and was heading away from them. A small man trailed in his wake, with leathery skin and scraggly brown hair. Jace saw Clary frown at the second man, but she glanced at him and implicit in the look was that she did not want to be questioned.

The redhead seemed so caught in a daydream that she ran into Alec's back from where they'd stopped to wait for the pair. She stumbled slightly before righting herself, and looked up in time to catch Alec's slightly concerned gaze, with a sprinkle of affection mixed in. Jace couldn't blame his brother for being fond of her; despite the dark bitterness, she had a sweet charisma that you couldn't help loving.

Clary jogged to the front and turned with Simon into what felt like the umpteenth alley they'd taken a shortcut through. Jace had almost gotten used to the smells by now, and had long stopped wrinkling his nose so hard he sneezed.

The two pickpockets paced a good few steps ahead of them, conversing in low tones, but that space was barely enough for the three siblings to stop in when the pair froze unexpectedly. Clary's eyes were wide, and Simon looked unnaturally pale.

And written in front of them, on a wall, in chalk, was another graffiti message. This was without a doubt the same message they'd seen written before, but it was far more legible now.

Four simple words, that he was sure that even Clary with her admittedly minimal literacy skills could decipher. Even so, he wasn't sure he would have been able to pick up on the meaning of them if it hadn't been for the final touch: a long smear of brown that underlined the words, exactly the same shade as the dried blood he'd seen surrounding the body at the murder scene only yesterday morning.

The words read: __The Jews did it.__

* * *

 _ _11:00am, September 9 1888, Taki's__

After the two had seen the ominous message, they'd scurried back to Taki's, an inn in Miller's Court where, apparently, they worked, like mice who'd been sighted by a cat. Clary, after quickly and hurriedly conversing with Simon, had decided to drag the siblings down Goulston Street, instead of the wider, and more accessible Commercial Street that ran parallel. The path they took was strait forward and quick, Clary knowing all the ins and outs of the area, but it was crowded and smelled like a cesspit. Clary had wanted to laugh every time she looked over a the Lightwoods and saw Jace carefully picking his way around mysterious substances, whilst Isabelle of the expensive, attractive boots marched on through without a flick of her head. Clary liked this girl.

Now they pushed through the door, handle worn smooth by the constant rubbing of the hundreds of customers Taki's saw. Alec made a beeline for the booth he'd sat in the previous day, sitting in that position Clary had noticed gave him the perfect vantage point to observe everyone else in the room. Slightly baffled by his taking the initiative, Jace and Isabelle followed suit. Clary and Simon went to sit on the bar stools in front of Magnus, who was observing the people they'd brought in with amusement. When his eyes fell on Alec, he sighed and shook his head at Clary, looking like he was pondering her stupidity.

"Clarissa Fray," he began sternly." _Please_ tell me you weren't profoundly idiotic enough to try and pickpocket Officer Alexander Lightwood."

At the sound of one of their names, the siblings latched their eyes on the gossiping trio, frowning.

"No!" Clary replied with intense indignation. "How stupid do you think I am?! _He's_ the one I pick-pocketed." She continued, jabbing her finger at Jace, who just looked amused. The expression faded at her next words. "He's easy. I've done it before!"

"You did what?" Jace butted in, standing up and walking over to where Magnus stood. "When were you going to mention this?!" She ignored him, but that did nothing to dissuade him from rambling on. "And if I'm so easy, then why did you get yourself caught?"

"Sheer dumb luck," she called it, waving her hand dismissively. The breath left him in a puff as he took a step closer to her and Clary could just imagine his chest puffing up like an offended squirrel. She smothered a laugh in her throat at the image.

"Nice to meet you!" Isabelle's incessant cheer sliced through the situation like sunlight through water. "I'm Isabelle Lightwood, and these are my brothers Alec and Jace." She gestured t the tall man behind her and the blonde in front of her as she continued, "We're writing a book on the conditions of the slums and Clary kindly offered to show us around the place."

Isabelle was charming as she spoke to Magnus, and Magnus smiled politely in response. But beneath the politeness, Clary could tell that the girl was growing on him as much as she was on her.

"I thought you were a police officer," Magnus addressed Alec directly, who'd been studying for the duration of Isabelle's speech. For some unknown reason, though Clay had her suspicions, the skin of his neck went a dark red when the Oriental man addressed him. "Is this a side job?"

"No, I'm awful with words, and writing in general," Alec muttered, blue eyes downcast, all the cheer and confidence suddenly draining out of him. Clary felt pity for him in that instant; she understood what it might be like to struggle with words, but the fact that his father owned a printing press and both his siblings loved the art enough to write a book could only be an extra confidence killer. "I'm just here to escort them."

Magnus raised an eyebrow, sweeping his gold-green gaze over the mini family. "Escort?" He examined the two writers. "Since your lovely sister doesn't strike me as one who requires supervision in this sort of thing," Clary wondered with his last words if there was something she was missing, "I'm going to presume it's Chrysaor over here that needs escorting?"

Isabelle barked a laugh. The sound, along with everything about her, was chiming, graceful, and just plain beautiful. "Yes." She grinned tilting her head back with a dazzling smile as she laughed. "That's exactly it."

Simon cut in there, for the first time since their conversation had started. Clary didn't blame him; she knew why he was brooding. "Magnus," his voice was low, but urgent; the kind that one had to listen to, or disastrous consequences would befall them. He shared a meaningful look with Clary. "We found something whilst we were out that was a bit... unsettling."

Clary noted absently that Isabelle laughter had died in her throat, and that she and Jace were listening intently. Alec was listening, but without the same focus as the others; he clearly knew what the words referred to, and why that was of concern. Simon seemed to note this half a heartbeat after, because he swallowed and looked Magnus dead in the eye. "But I'm not sure we'd want to discuss in with present company. Just... remind me later, alright? And keep an eye out for any racist behaviour."

Clary understood Simon's secretive behaviour. Deal or no, the three were still outsiders to their way of life, and didn't need to know about the personal dangers of it.

"I don't have that many eyes," Magnus said, and though his words were joking, his tone was not. As the son of a Dutch man and a woman native to the Dutch East Indies, he understood racism as well as the two of them did.

Clary turned to the Lightwoods. "This tour is cut short, for valid reasons. If you like feel free to sit in the corner and observe what happens here, but we're not going back out again. Come back tomorrow if you want to know more." Her voice was commanding, but with the inflection that suggested that she would much prefer they didn't come back tomorrow _or_ sit in the corner. She left the choice up to them, though.

They stayed. Isabelle seemed genuinely curious about what happened, and interrogated Simon thoroughly when he went out to see if he could possibly pickpocket any unsuspecting wanderers, yielding no results with her questioning. Jace sent a knowing smirk at Clary, who knew he was just staying to annoy her. She rolled her eyes.

Alec remained seated at the bar, conversing with Magnus; it was clear he wouldn't leave until his siblings did. The blush on his neck didn't fade for at least half an hour.

After a while, Clary found she didn't mind the Lightwoods' presence. Sure they were annoying, but Isabelle was smart and cheerful, Jace was an endearing pain, and Alec was reserved and quiet and surprisingly stoic. She was sure that if only they were in the position to be friends, they would get along well.

As it was, she'd just have to make due.

* * *

"Do your siblings know?" Magnus asked him now, making eye contact with a grave expression that didn't fit with the jovial man Clary had introduced.

Alec swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, tongue like a useless flap of paper. He spluttered out a weak, "I don't know what you mean."

"I think your sister does," Magnus continued, undaunted by his reticence. Alec's heart began to beat faster with panic, but Magnus's face showed only compassion. "She has that knowing look about her. Your brother is completely clueless."

"What are you talking about?" Alec got out past the cannon ball that had somehow become wedged in his throat.

"And I think Clary might've guessed as well. Perceptive, that one. And she'd recognise the cues, what with living with me and all."

"Living with you?" Alec asked, still choking on his own horror, but with a small reverberation of relief. He knew what Magnus meant.

The man's eyes were shadowed by the dim lighting in the room, but for an instant they began to glow, the gold flecks in them overpowering the green like electric lights that had just been switched on, sweeping away the emerald darkness. He'd always loved gold.

Alec's hand had been laid on the table but now it was tense and arched, betraying his distress. Magnus placed a hand over his, and both hands relaxed.

"Lying to yourself, Alexander," Magnus intoned, tone dripping with sorrow, "doesn't change the truth."

* * *

 **What did you think? Review?**


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